Alexey Pehov - Shadow Prowler

Meanwhile, Miralissa began singing. Her low, resonant voice began twining itself into the air, swirling through it in a taut spiral of words. Her singing was spellbinding. For all its native coarseness, the orcish language, or rather its elfish dialect (the elves thought of themselves as too proud to use the language of the orcs) was like a mountain stream. Its gurgling was very pleasant to listen to.

The elfess sang as she approached me, and I felt as if she and I were alone in the room with her voice. Egrassa and Ell had moved back and away, become just one of the many shadows hemming me in on all sides.

The voice, the shadows… And the eyes. Miralissa’s golden eyes, with tongues of amber flame flickering in them. They drew me in, leading me away to distant places and times. They filled the entire room. The signs she drew on my face began burning, and the key clenched in my fist was also getting warmer and warmer.

The walls of the room flared up in bright fire, trembled, collapsed outward, then began falling in blazing banners into endless darkness. I cried out, my feet searching hopelessly for support that was not there; I flung my arms out in a futile attempt to fly. The darkness burst into flame and the furious flames born in the darkness came rushing toward me from all sides, scorching my neck, my back, my shoulders. The unbearable heat licking at my body set my hair ablaze. The pain ran through me like a blunt knife. I don’t remember, I think I screamed, but then an ink-black shadow that had appeared out of nowhere in this hell of amber fire touched my back and pushed me forward. Into the yellow eyes, into that roaring heat.

A single instant.

Flight. Blindness. Silence.

Night.

I swear on the peak of Zam-da-Mort, may its snows never melt! Are you sure that on the way here, honorable sir, you didn’t fall into the old quarries? It’s dangerous around there now; the gnomes’ wits have completely deserted them and they throw the exhausted rock straight down on your head. You have to be careful not to get hit.”

The dark elf whom the old dwarf was addressing restrained himself with an effort. Probably only those well acquainted with this race could understand just how much of an effort this restraint required. Neither the dark nor the light elves, may a dragon’s flame devour them, were known for the mildness of their tempers, and they responded to any insult, real or imagined, by reaching for their weapons. But this representative of the forest folk remained calm. Who better to persuade a dwarf master craftsman to carry out a special commission than the eldest son of the House of the Black Flame?

Elodssa was not only a fine warrior (even his enemies, the orcs, accepted that he was), but also an excellent diplomat. And in addition, his knowledge of shamanism improved his chances of getting what the elves wanted from the dwarves, and the short people would never even suspect that they had been given a gentle nudge. But Elodssa was in no hurry to employ his secret knowledge. That was his last resort. For the time being he could restrict himself to normal negotiations.

“No, honorable Frahel, nothing fell on my head.”

“Oh really?” The old master craftsman seemed rather perturbed by this circumstance. “But then your race is a bit touched in the head without any help from stones.”

“Every race has its shortcomings.” The elf bared his fangs in an attempt to smile, although he really wanted to do something quite different: take the obstinate dwarf by the scruff of the neck and smack his head against the wall several times.

But he must not! He must not lose his self-control. For after all, among craftsmen, Frahel, may the forest flame tear out his liver, was one of the small number of Masters with a capital M. Only this dwarf was capable of creating what the race of elves required.

“Well, there’s no doubt about that. Every race has its shortcomings,” the dwarf continued. “For instance, take our cousins, the gnomes, curse them, every one. They don’t know how to do anything except mine ore and drill corridors in the rock. They’ve never created a single thing, the rotten idlers!”

“Let us not discuss your relatives,” Elodssa said hurriedly.

“That’s right, we won’t talk about relatives,” the dwarf grunted, getting up from his workbench. “You and the orcs have been slitting each other’s throats since time out of mind, and you still can’t simmer down.”

At this point Elodssa was obliged to grit his teeth. Frahel was openly mocking him, in the realization that if the elf had endured the preceding insults, he would endure this one, too, and many others as well.

“Very well, very well, my worthy sir elf,” the master craftsman said, raising his hands in a gesture of conciliation. “I know I have touched on a sore spot, and I apologize for it. But as for your little proposal… It is very tempting but, alas, impossible.”

“Why?”

“I do not have that much talent.”

“Oh, come now,” the elf said with an irritable frown. “My dear Master Frahel, modesty becomes you as the absence of a beard becomes a gnome.”

The dwarf imagined the gnomes without their beards and appreciated the joke.

“Master Frahel’s fame resounds throughout the northern lands of Siala. Was it not you who created the magic bell and the suit of arms for the emperor? Who else should the elfin houses turn to? Vrahmel? He is too greedy, so he will damage the material. Smerhel? His fame as a craftsman is somewhat greater than he deserves. Or perhaps we should pester Irhel? But he has not a shred of talent. Dear master, for our commission we need the very best. You!”

When the elf said that the finest master craftsmen of the dwarves were not capable of doing anything, he was lying in the desire to flatter this obstinate dwarf. Frahel found the flattery to his liking, and he thawed somewhat.

“Well then,” he said, scratching his chin thoughtfully, “perhaps I will take on this little commission of yours when I have some free time. You can see for yourself…”

He gestured casually at the tables crammed with jobs and feigned an expression of regret.

The elf was not at all disconcerted by this little performance. Frahel was simply trying to push his price up.

“We cannot afford to wait. The doors have already been made and now we need a key. At least one.”

“They need a key,” the dwarf grumbled, casting a quick glance at the elf. “You’re masters when it comes to hammering together the doors for your underground palaces. But as soon as you need a little key made, you come running to the dwarves. I’m not even sure that it will work. Our types of magic are too different.”

“Of course, that is so,” Elodssa said with a polite smile. “But that is why the elves have come to you and no one else. Only you are capable of creating an artifact fitting for the Twin-Door level.”

“All right!” the dwarf agreed in a slightly irritable tone. “I can do it. But the key has to be special. I think you know what I mean. The material must be worthy of the doors. I don’t have anything suitable, and I don’t know how long it will take to obtain it.”

“I think I can help you there.” The elf took a long, elegant case out of his bag and handed it to the dwarf.

“Hmm! Red Zagraban cherry?” said the master craftsman, turning the wooden case over in his immense hands, and then he slowly opened it.

Inside there was a small black velvet bag tied with a golden thread. The dwarf snorted in annoyance. These elves loved all sorts of frills and flourishes. They couldn’t just give you something, they had to bundle it up in a hundred wrappings, and then you had to unwrap them!